


till we have faces

by NotPersephone



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, Greek Mythology References, Online Dating, Therapy Years, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/pseuds/NotPersephone
Summary: Bedelia’s fingers tap against the ball of her now empty glass, its contents having done their task in fortifying her deliberation. The flashy name on the top irks her senses with its elaborate font and vermilion hue.A dating site. How ridiculous.





	till we have faces

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Caissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caissa/gifts).



This is possibly the most mindless thing she has ever done in her life.

Bedelia’s fingers tap against the ball of her now empty glass, its contents having done their task in fortifying her deliberation. She stares at the sign-up page with all the details filled in while the cursor hovers over the submit button. The flashy name on the top irks her senses with its elaborate font and vermilion hue.

A dating site. How ridiculous.

It was not the best day to visit the farmer’s market, she ponders the circumstances that had brought her to this moment.

It was a meeting of chance, a colleague from her residential years she had not seen in years. Bedelia remembered her as rather ambitious, but now she appeared to have traded her previous aspirations for a diamond and a wedding band which she continued to display ostentatiously, her hand lingering over the side of her face too long to be considered accidental.

“And they are already going on a vacation together. Cabo, so romantic. I am sure the wedding bells will be ringing soon.”

In the space of few minutes, she had managed to revise the marital status of all their mutual colleagues, starting from the married ones and swiftly shifting to the dating gossip.

“She had met him online. Can you believe that?” she smiled at Bedelia, waiting for an appropriate reaction, but she was met with barely a nod of acknowledgement as Bedelia politely waited for her to finish the story, so she could excuse herself.

The conversation was hardly stimulating, reminding Bedelia why she had always evaded any college reunions. But unfortunately, the woman continued to sing the praise of the flawless match, making Bedelia wonder if she had been paid for the promotion.

“You should try it, Bedelia,” she finally got to the predicted conclusion, “It must be hard being alone,” she added with the usual pity married people extended over their single acquaintances.

Bedelia pressed her lips together; pistou soup could have waited, no produce was worth this tiring exchange, no matter how fresh.

“I am doing well, thank you,” she put a deliberate emphasis on the last phrase, each of her words laced with ice, making the air around them grow considerably cooler.

Normally, she would not even deign to respond, but the whole exchange had taken her by surprise; she looked forward to ending it as soon as possible. In truth, Bedelia did enjoy her solitude and peace, not being dependent on another person. It was her choice and being in control of her own destiny was what she valued most. If at times she felt like no one could truly understand ( _love_ ) her for who she was, she kept it to herself, the faint scraps of belief she swept into the deepest corners of her mind, places too narrow to ever let anything slip back into her thoughts.

“I am sure even you can find a perfect match,” the woman insisted, ignoring the gas flames of Bedelia’s stare, “Someone with similar interests, maybe another doctor?”

This time Bedelia did not bother to answer; if she had been looking to secure a spouse in a medical field, she had amp opportunities over the years. But in her experience, they were all on the boring side. With perhaps _one exception_. But now was not the time to dwell on that notion; the corners of Bedelia’s lips lifted ever so slightly and she gave her watch an over exaggerated glance.

“It was _lovely_ talking to you, but I must be going,” she brought forward her most perfect façade of manners, hiding her annoyance behind a practised curve of her lips that can be taken for a polite smile, but does not come close to being one.

_A perfect match._

A nonsensical concept devised to lure the desperate loners and the hopeless romantics.

And yet, here she is, with the dating site open, all ready to jump into the rabbit’s hole.  If only to prove her colleague wrong. You cannot form an opinion on something you do not know, that is her dictum, and with that conviction in mind she presses the submit button.

She cannot wait to have her assumption confirmed.

Bedelia frowns as the main page opens, a parade of profiles of both men and women, not unlike the market she has visited earlier. Fake smiles and artificial glow hiding the cracks of unhappiness. She is glad she has yet to include a picture; suddenly the idea of someone determining her worth based on a single glance makes her apprehensive. She might not stay here long enough to conclude her trial after all. Still, she continues to explore all the options and settings until her eyes fall on the last choice in the menu, an ostentatious bait.

_Your ideal partner is just a few questions away!_

Bedelia lets out an audible sigh, wishing her glass wasn’t empty as she continues to toy with the stem. But she clicks on the link, letting her curiosity have its fill. An extensive questionnaire appears before her eyes; the general enquiries about interests interspersed with more detailed ones.

_What is your ideal date?_

She raises an eyebrow; this might prove amusing. Bedelia decides to answer the questions with all honesty, the best way to ensure the system fails to provide her with a match. She submits the questionnaire with a pleased smile on her face and closes her laptop, thinking she has put an end to this nonsense. Taking the empty glass, she makes her way to the kitchen. The running tap water conceals the sound of the email notification.

 

The following morning, Bedelia wakes up as though recovering from a hangover, one of an intellectual kind; her evening’s endeavours seem even more absurd in the daylight. She makes her usual cup of coffee, its pleasant sharp aroma calming her mind; she takes a sip, feeling more like herself and ready to put yesterday’s happenings behind her.

With the cup in her hand, she walks to her office to check her email, a set professional routine, although she does not remember the last time she has received anything of importance. Bedelia opens her inbox, ready to clear the typical unwanted clutter when her eyes fall on the top message. She blinks twice, thinking she might be dreaming still, but there it is, an email from the dating site.

_You have been struck by cupid!_ its title reads, how crass.

She opens the email without thinking, still confused by the unexpected turn of events. Her eyes quickly sweep its contents; it appears she has been matched with one person at a rare 99% compatibility. That does not sound right, Bedelia suspects a fault of system or perhaps a purposeful set up to ensure the clients’ satisfaction. Either way, she does not believe its validity. Still, her insatiable curiosity takes over anew as she decides to inspect the person who has been chosen as her ideal match. The email redirects her back to the dating site and a profile of a man in his 30-40s, living in Baltimore, but disappointingly with no picture. He likes art, classical music and fine cuisine. It is not much to draw an inference, once more convincing Bedelia of the system’s inaccuracy. She will not allow this small hiccup to ruin her day; she pushes her laptop aside, finishing her coffee and ignoring the little jab of inquisitiveness in back of her mind wondering who he might be.

Later that day, a strange sound alerts her senses, disturbing her reading concentration. She walks towards her desk and looks at the screen of her forgotten laptop.

_User 287131 has sent you a message._

She immediately recognises this to be the man whose profile she has been looking at earlier today. The thought that the other person might be notified when someone views their profile has not occurred to Bedelia, how uncareful of her. She presses her lips and opens the pop-up message box, facing her mistakes.

**User 287131:** We seemed to have been targeted by Cupid’s arrow.

Not an impressive opening line, Bedelia gathers, but she should not expect more from someone using an online dating service. She considers ignoring it, but her fingers begin to type almost in spite of her rational mind.

**User 305214:** Cupid should be more careful as to not wound himself by mistake.

She expects her rejoinder to put the man in his place and hopefully end the exchange. But the notification beep sounds almost immediately.

**User 287131:** He did not hesitate to do so in a face of true love.

Touché.

**User 305214:** True love is just a social concept.

**User 287131:** An unusual opinion for someone who joined a dating site.

**User 305214:** I did not mean to be rude. A colleague of mine recommended this site, I did not expect to find a match.

**User 287131:**  Likewise. I am not fond of this formula for making acquaintances. But I was curious about the high compatibility match.

It is possible she has misjudged him.

**User 305214:** I am certain it must a system’s error.

**User 287131:** Perhaps. There is only one way to find out.

Or she hasn’t; she decides not to respond. But the man does not seem discouraged.

**User 287131:**  Maybe we could start with a name?

**User 305214:** I am not comfortable sharing my name with a random stranger. You might be a serial killer for all I know.

**User 287131:** I might be, but you might be one as well.

A bold statement, but she is not yet convinced by his bravado.

**User 305214:** You seem to be very sure of yourself, Mr. Cupid.

**User 287131:** Cupid, there is no need for formalities.

This time Bedelia smiles; they are at least well matched in sharpness of mind.

**User 305214:** Psyche, charmed.

**User 287131:** The pleasure is all mine. Now that we are acquainted, I look forward to getting to know you better in the dark.

She is still hesitant, trepidation lingering in the back of her mind as Bedelia is not one for a leap of faith. But there is no harm in sharing a casual conversation, is there?

 

The following day, she visits the site again and cannot help but smile seeing the man’s profile picture now displaying a painting of a blindfolded Cupid. Deciding to follow suit, she finds an appropriate painting of Psyche; she chooses one showing the goddess entering Cupid’s garden.

The message notification sounds at once.

**Cupid:** Are you an admirer of Pre-Raphaelite art?

**Psyche:** I prefer Impressionism. I presume you are a Renaissance man yourself?

**Cupid:** In more than one way.

They talk all afternoon, discussing art movements and favourite artists; Bedelia is impressed by the man’s passion even if their tastes differ. And he is curious about her opinions, not once overbearing the discussion. It is strange, having such a captivating conversation with a faceless man she barely knows. But she enjoys it too much to let her doubts take charge; it is not everyday she finds a peer who takes real interest in what she has to say.

There is almost a certain regret settling in her chest when the evening arrives and her mysterious companion excuses himself due to a prior engagement.

**Cupid:** But I have really enjoyed our conversation. I hope we can continue it tomorrow.

Bedelia tries to disregard a different kind of feeling unfurling within her.

**Psyche:** I would like that.

She replies simply and bids him goodbye, already looking forward to the next conversation.

 

This time the message notification brings an unforeseen smile to her face as she sits down in front of her laptop the following day. They continue to discuss various interests and she learns more about her faceless companion without really knowing who he is. She expects him to question her about her profession or family ties, but, uncommonly, he does not. And she is grateful that the exchange does not follow the typical script and avoids the potholes of clichés; it puts her at ease, making the conversation course with verve. Bedelia becomes increasingly intrigued by her match; she feels like she sees more of him with each discussion and opens herself up a bit in a process. It is an odd feeling, but not an unpleasant one.

Soon, their talks move to evenings and it brings a welcome unwinding at the end of Bedelia’s day.

Almost like date nights.

But these are not date nights, Bedelia tries to reassure herself, despite the introduction of drinks to their conversation. A glass of wine takes a permanent spot on her desk during their shared time. They even exchange wine recommendations. Having always preferred French vintages to all others, Bedelia has been persuaded to try a Chilean one, strong blend with cherries and vanilla notes.

**Cupid:** I knew you would like it.

Her enigmatic Cupid continues to display strong confidence and somehow Bedelia does not detest it.

**Psyche:** Do not presume you know me.

**Cupid:** I would never presume that.

Bedelia smiles, taking a mouthful of her wine; sour cherries linger on her tongue, but her mind is anything but bitter.

 

“You look radiant today, Doctor.”

Her patient regards her with his habitual intensity, cataloguing each minuscule change in her appearance.

“Do I?” she responds, “Thank you, Hannibal.”

She secretly hopes that is the end of that discussion, but it is never the case with Hannibal Lecter.

“Has something happened?” he presses on, ever so innocently, but the real intent of the question is apparent, even if he will not dare to utter it outright.

Bedelia meets his gaze, eyes glaring.

“I appreciate your interest, Hannibal, but I am your psychiatrist. It is not your place to trouble yourself with my private life,” she says coolly, reinforcing the limits of their relationship, watching with satisfaction as Hannibal’s smug expression vanishes.

“Of course, I apologise,” he says instead, looking almost contrite.

The last minutes of their session pass in tentative uncertainty. But she offers him the wine nonetheless; she is pleased when he chooses red, giving her the chance to sample more of her recent recommendation.

Strangely, Hannibal does not comment on the change of origin. There is a gleam in his eyes as she hands him the glass, but she is certain it is just a trick of the light reflected in the liquid. She watches him carefully as he inhales deeply, savouring the notes, but his gaze remains unaltered. Bedelia takes a sip of her wine, relaxing in turn.

“I am glad you are contended, Doctor,” he speaks suddenly, his stare still curiously fixed on the wine swirling in his glass, “I just want you to be happy,” he lifts his head to meet her eyes.

His words, and gaze, are surprisingly sincere. It confuses her in more than one way. She averts her eyes, hiding her tightly pressed lips behind the ball of her glass.

Why does she feel as though she were cheating on Hannibal Lecter?

 

Conflicted about her intentions, she avoids the dating site the next day. The usual cheerful sound of incoming messages is now a pique interrupting her stormy thoughts, an unpleasant reminder of her current state of weakness. It isn’t until the following evening that she opens the chat box.

Is everything all right? the last message reads, in light of her lack of response to the previous ones. Bedelia feels a tiny pang of guilt; there is no reason to punish someone who means well for her own indecisions. And she did miss their conversations.

**Psyche:** Yes, I apologise, I was preoccupied.

**Cupid:** I was worried it was something I said.

**Psyche:** Your utter glorification of Caravaggio leaves a room for concern but other than that everything is fine.

**Cupid:** I am still hoping to change your mind on that subject.

The swift exchange breaks the spell of tension between them and their conversation continues to flow as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It makes her lighter in a way, being able to speak so freely with someone; where others feel uncomfortable with the mask of anonymity, Bedelia welcomes it. She would rather not be seen.

But she knows it will not last, dreading the unavoidable moment of reveal. There have been edging towards it for days now, as the wine discussion moved to cuisine pairings and the inevitable question.

**Cupid:** Shellfish tagine. I would love for you to sample it.

**Psyche:** Which Baltimore restaurant serves it?

**Cupid:** Who said it was a Baltimore restaurant?

**Psyche:** Are you planning to take me on a plane across a country?

She plays for time, knowing well enough it buys her mere seconds.

**Cupid:** Perhaps eventually, across the ocean more likely. But for now, I would love to cook for you.

The suggestion should have set a red flag in her mind, but she is too preoccupied with the implications of abandoning the safe space of their online chat to give it much thought. Instead, she excuses herself anew, realising that he will not be swayed from the subject for very long.

 

**Cupid:** I would love to meet you in person.

The expected message appears two days later and makes Bedelia as apprehensive as she knew it would.

**Psyche:** It is hard to meet face to face when we don’t have faces.

She tries to change the nature of the exchange; it is flimsy at best.

**Cupid:** We won’t know until we try.

As predicted, he does not give up. It leaves her nothing but to admit the truth.

**Psyche:** I am sorry, but I am not ready for that yet.

She stares at the screen with rigid expectancy, her heart dashing against her rib cage. What has become of her? Seconds pass without a reply and she is certain she has scared him away. When the notification sounds at last, it startles her, sending her pulse racing afresh.

**Cupid:** I understand.

The tension leaves her shoulders in tandem with a long exhale and Bedelia relaxes slightly; perhaps she has been worrying for nothing. But before she gets a chance to consider her suddenly growing sympathy for the man, another message appears on the screen.

**Cupid:** I just want you to be happy.

The words evoke a recent memory in her mind, the familiar voice and face, and suddenly the mask falls apart with a resounding crack, making all the hidden pieces come together, unveiling the least expected picture.

It cannot be.

The penchant for Renaissance art, the culinary expertise; she is annoyed with herself for not seeing it before. She might be mistaken, of course, her hyperacute mind playing tricks on her, but she does not wish to linger in such uncertainty. There is only one way to find out.

**Psyche:** Is that really what you want for me, Hannibal?

The fingers type the words swiftly, before her rational mind can stop her hasty actions. She risks looking like a fool if her suspicions are wrong, but she does not care.

**Cupid:** That is the only thing I have ever wanted for you, Bedelia.

She feels as though as cold water has washed down her back; her lips press together as the mental constraint settles on her temples.

**Psyche:** How long have you known?

**Cupid:** Not long.

The line of her lips becomes even thinner; she does not believe him, why should she, given his character. Her instantly sharpened mind scrutinises the previous weeks, every occurrence and word exchanged. It was the wine, a red alert shines on their post session glass. Or perhaps it was something she said, too trivial for her to recall now, but not missed by Hannibal’s keen instincts. It does not matter now, she sweeps her investigating notions aside.

**Cupid:** I am sure you had your suspicions as well.

If this message was meant to placate her, it does the exact opposite, her thoughts gashing red as her anger rises. It’s the grain of truth that inflames her the most; she did ignore the obvious tell-tale signs, relishing this unforeseen connection and not wanting to peek behind the curtain of truth. But he _knew_ and did not put an end to this farce; she shifts her vexation back where it belongs.

**Psyche:** How long were you planning to keep up the charade?

Her fingers tap on the surface of her desk as if trying to spell out her muddled feelings.

**Cupid:** You seemed more comfortable with this form of communication.

The hand stilts, flattening against the counter. The flames of her irritation flare up with fervour. Yes, she was the one insisting on the continuous cover on anonymity. She does not answer.

**Cupid:** I am sorry. I meant no harm.

Bedelia’s eyes fix on his words. What did he expect would have happened if they met? She closes her laptop shut in one forceful gesture.

Her night is restless; she dreams of wondering in the dark without a spot of light to lead her to her destination.

 

The next day, she sets to delete her account, only to find that Hannibal has already been taken his down. Without waiting for message notifications, she almost startles when a different kind of sound intrudes on her contemplation, the bell of the front door.

She opens the door to find a mailman with an unexpected package for her. Her eyes fall on the writing on the box, immediately recognising the elegant cursive. Frowning, she takes the box in an unnecessary abrupt manner. She is not interested in whatever offering Hannibal has intended to try to appease her with.

Closing the door, she drops the package on her hallway table, aiming to ignore it, but her inquisitiveness takes the best of her, as per usual, making her reach for it anew. Her hand strokes the grainy paper covering the box as she contemplates its possible contents. Finally, she unwraps it and lifts its cover. Red velvet lining the box nestles a Venetian mask; black beaded lace opens up in a tail of a bird on one side, its head lifting over the top of the mask, a phoenix rising. Bedelia startles, fingers moving to examine the beautifully ornate design; it is not what she imagined finding. The mask is accompanied by a note, the same familiar cursive flowing on an ivory paper.

_Dear Bedelia,_

_My mask has always been yours to take off._

_H._

She stares at the words, still admiring intricate craftsmanship of the mask. A timid smile returns to her lips. Her Cupid has willingly showed his face, sparing her the trials, like a beacon of light in the darkness.

All she needs now is to trust the path.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by k, thank you ♥ (very belated) happy birthday!  
> It was fun to try something new, this romantic trope and bedannibal work really well together.  
> The online dating decorum has been made up to serve my (story) needs.  
> The title was borrowed from C.S. Lewis who wrote a book under the same title, a retelling of the Cupid and Psyche myth. Hannibal's blindfolded Cupid image comes from Botticelli's Primavera (obviously) and Bedelia's Psyche is a painting by John William Waterhouse.


End file.
